


A-dress'd

by PyrophobicDragon



Category: Dragalia Lost (Video Game)
Genre: Clothing Porn, M/M, and clothed porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 16:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20585468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrophobicDragon/pseuds/PyrophobicDragon
Summary: Heinwald tries on some new clothes.Self-indulgent clothing porn that eventually becomes actual porn.





	A-dress'd

He ran his hairbrush through his hair, watching the strands separate out with the bristles and fall back together. He took his time with each stroke, starting from the very root and drawing the brush all the way to the tip, supporting sections of his hair at a time with the other hand.

“You have such beautiful hair,” his sister told him once. “I wish my hair was like yours.”

He did not think his hair was beautiful at the time. He thought his hair was weird. It grew white in some places and black in others, and it grew far faster than his father’s or even his sister’s. And even though he was teetering on the cusp of adulthood, his hair refused to grow anywhere else but his head. Honestly speaking, though, it was probably the least weird thing about his appearance.

His sister’s hair was dark, bordering the line between black and brown, and she wore it pinned up the way a proper lady did. He thought that she had no need to express jealousy over his hair, and he told her so.

She only laughed. “Accept the compliment. You’ll get lots of those as you get older.” She set down the hairbrush, he remembered, and began to braid his hair. She then said fondly, “My beautiful baby brother. I’m going to have to fight off girls with a stick.”

He thought she was lying. He had weird purple skin and he was covered in scars and stitches where his body began to fall apart on its own before he and Sissy had to put it back together. Then he thought maybe she wasn’t lying, because his sister was a woman who dealt with half-truths over lies. He remembered reading, back when Sissy would do nothing but lie in bed and sigh dramatically over Jakob, that people become more attractive the more you spend time with them. Sissy wasn’t lying, he decided, she was just...biased.

“I don’t think anyone would spend enough time with me to think me beautiful,” he told her back then. He was referring to his difficulty as a person. He saw too much and cared too little.

Sissy was very good at following his unspoken logic. But she boldly insisted, “They won’t have to. They’ll fall in love with you at first sight. They’ll all think you’re beautiful the way I do.”

He had frowned at the wall.

Curran was so handsome. He had thought so the second he saw him.

There are certain characteristics that humans almost universally find attractive. Markers of fitness, of freedom from disease, of youth, of fertility, of status. Heinwald could probably create an itemized list of why he found Curran attractive within those parameters. But for once the why didn’t matter so much. What mattered was his tousled hair, his piercing blue eyes, the tempting peek of his chest that could be seen out of his open shirt. His long legs, his strong jaw, the confidence he exuded with every step. 

When Heinwald first spotted him in the street, he stopped in place and simply looked at him for a long time.

Heinwald realized that he had been staring at the corner of the mirror for a long time, hairbrush held loosely in his hand. He got out of the chair and walked into their closet. Lying down on his belly, he reached underneath the dresser that held their underwear and various accessories (and, admittedly, a few items that they used for pleasure) and dragged out the large, flat boxes he hid underneath it. It was difficult, hiding articles of clothing from Curran when they shared a closet. He could’ve hid it in one of the many, many rooms of the mansion, and gotten changed there without Curran being any the wiser, but there was something pleasing about having it stashed away in the closet where it belonged.

He pushed himself up into a kneeling position, pulling the boxes into his lap, before he realized that the antique rug would leave indents on his bare knees. He shuffled around until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor and opened the box.

This was not the first dress he has worn. He was, perhaps, a tad bit vain and a bit more of a dandy than most people would assume, and the average dress complimented his svelte figure rather than making him look disconcertingly gaunt the way the average suit did. Most of the time, however, the items of clothing he wore came out of the wardrobes of his mansion home, left behind by women long dead or servants long gone.

(he still has not stepped foot inside his sister’s room, though. Even though he was mighty jealous of some of her outfits as a child.)

This was not the first outfit he purchased specifically for in-house use, either. After an initial experiment featuring a set of maid’s stockings and a ballgown’s garters, Curran had voiced enthusiastic approval of Heinwald’s use of lingerie. He had bought more panties and stockings and corsets, and currently those pieces lived in the dresser that had functioned to obscure the box he was holding from Curran’s view.

But there was still a sense of significance to the boxes he held, one that he struggled to put a name to. It was significant because he had designed and ordered a head-to-toe outfit, from the accessories to the underwear to even the shoes, instead of cobbling together an outfit from preexisting livery and outfits. Something he made specifically for himself because he thought it was pretty.

He opened up the first box.

The majority of this box was taken up by a petticoat. The fluffy white folds expanded when freed from the pressure of the lid, like it was taking in a sigh, barely threatened by the weight of the corset lying on top. Even folded down into submission, it still took up a lot of room. He left that for later and inspected the small compartments built into the box. 

He started with the underwear. He was only wearing his dressing gown and nothing underneath; he kept the gown on as he pulled on the lacy black panties. Much to his delight, they fit perfectly, snug against the curve of his rear, no scratching or tickling. Next were a pair of fishnet stockings. He struggled briefly with them, careful not to thrust his leg in too enthusiastically lest his toes get caught and tear the fabric. The lace trim at the top, about an inch and a half tall, hid a small loop for a garter belt to clip on to, and he did that next. He stopped and admired the stark black lines of the belt running vertically up his thighs.

He put on the corset next. He wore a corset as a part of his everyday wardrobe, underneath his button-down shirt, but that one was a simple cream color with white ties, strictly utilitarian, meant to be all but invisible. On this one, the red fabric peeked out from underneath the black lace overlay, and the ties were red silk ribbons, adding more color while staying within the design parameters of the other items. He was able to get it on fairly easily by himself, after so much practice over the years. Not too tight, not too loose, just enough to support his spine and smooth the curve of his waist.

All of his corsets tied in the back. A status symbol, a way to denote the fact that the owner had servants to tie the corset for them, but he had dismissed all of the domestic servants when he truly inherited the estate at eighteen. Ever since then, he laced up his corsets by himself: awkwardly at first, but eventually with enough practice that he was able to do it without the assistance of a mirror. His sister’s mother, the lady of the household, would have used the fleet of servants to dress her every day. Or perhaps she only had one, a trusted maid who helped her into and out of her dresses. He did not know which one it was, though he was sure if he inspected the payroll he could deduce it. 

He did not know if his own mother had back-laced corsets, front-laced corsets, or if she even wore corsets at all. For all he knew about her, she might as well not even exist. He might have sprang, fully-formed, out of sea foam, or perhaps out of a split in his father’s skull, like legendary heroes of yore. His sister’s mother, at least, existed in paintings. She was beautiful, too; she had to be, with her youth, status, and wealth, forever preserved as an unsmiling, elegant woman seated primly with her husband and young daughter.

He stood up and inspected himself in the mirror after tightening his corset. Everything so far was well-made to his exact specifications.

After that, the petticoat came out of its box. The fluffy pile of white fabric unfolded into a fluffy skirt of white fabric. Before he went further, he paused and briefly debated with himself whether he should prepare himself before carrying on. He knew that his lover appreciated it when Heinwald prepared himself, as evidenced by the filthy praise that fell from his lips whenever he pressed a finger against Heinwald’s hole only to find that it slipped inside easily. But there was always the possibility that Curran would request oral or intercrucal sex rather than anal, and Curran did get a fascinatingly large amount of pleasure from fingering him. In the end, he stayed in the closet and pulled the petticoat on. He had a moment where he amused himself by bouncing his hands against the light fabric, but then he refocused and knelt down to open up the other box.

This box held the dress and the shoes. He took out the red heels and set them aside. One of them fell over onto its side, and he scowled at it briefly before turning his attention to the dress.

It had taken him a long time to choose his desired style. In fact, one of his original designs--a floor-length skirt and jacket combo with a high ruffled collar--had already been sent to the tailor for a second custom-made outfit. But in the end, he had chosen to go for a short shirt and a square neckline, with an overall maid-styled look.

The base color was black. The skirt was layered, with the color of the red underskirt barely peeking out under the hem. It had an apron-like white cloth panel, attached at the hips with two red bows decorated with black lace. Moving up to the bodice, there was a red silk stripe down the front, starting from the bottom of the sternum to the waist, criss-crossed with black ribbons and edged with white lace. The panel gave the bodice a corseted look, though the ribbons were purely for aesthetic purposes. Above the corset-style decoration was a wide panel of white loosely-ruched silk, framed by thin strips of black, as if the dress was a pinafore worn over a white blouse, though the whole dress was one piece. The short puffed sleeves were also edged in a white ruffle. He pulled the whole dress over his head and carefully closed it in the back.

His favorite part of the ensemble, he decided, were the shoes. He was a bit leery of walking in them, however. They were an inch and a half tall, with a very thin, pointed heel, and he did not have much practice with walking in heels. And he may have to do quite some walking to find Curran. But simply looking at them, the little red heels with the black ruffled tongues, bisected by a red strap and decorated with a red bow, gave him such delight. They sank into the rug a bit when he slipped them on, making him wobble in place. They fared much better on the tiled floor of the bathroom, and he paced back and forth a few times, concentrating on his stride, before returning to the closet and carefully easing himself back down into a sitting position to tackle the accessories.

The red hair bow he set aside to pin in his hair later. His hair was already black and white, and the plain red silk would be the only touch it needed to match the rest of the ensemble. The delicate white gloves, with their layered lace wrist cuffs, were also set carefully on the rug next to the bow. Then he took out the necklace that he had debated long and hard over. The final iteration he settled on was, nominally, a choker necklace, fitting snugly around his throat. But it also had a small ring on the front, so other accessories could be attached, such as a bell, a bow, or even…

Well. He shouldn’t indulge himself too much without at least showing Curran his outfit. He picked up his gloves and the bow and got carefully to his feet. Still wobbling a little bit, he made his way out of the closet and took a seat at the vanity again. He carefully gathered a little bit of hair from around his face and pulled it back, tying it in place at the back of his head with the hair bow. After some careful adjusting and readjusting of not only his hair but of the dress and the necklace as well, he pulled on his gloves and got up.

The shoes clicked against the stone floors as he made his way down the hall, thinking about Curran’s likely location. It was about two in the afternoon, so he was less likely to be in the kitchen. Despite the fact that they had Heinwald’s magical servants to prepare food, Curran actively enjoyed cooking and would often prepare their meals himself. He would not be in the yard, either; he preferred to wake up early to do his exercises. That meant that there were three likely locations: the library, reading; the dining room, maintaining his equipment; or the study, writing reports. The study was the closest. It would be most efficient to go there first.

As he walked down the hall, he turned the corner to the hallway where the study lay. His gait slowed until he stopped in front of one particular painting hanging on the walls.

There were three people in the painting. Himself, nine years old, wearing a perfectly-fitted suit that cost far more than anyone should have ever spent on a nine-year-old, standing to the side. His hair was plastered to his skull with copious amounts of bandoline; he remembered that a servant had to cut it that morning because his hair grew so fast even back then and they couldn’t have him looking sloppy for his sister’s eighteenth birthday portrait. The hairstyle did not do such an ugly child any favors. There was also his sister, looking very much like her mother in the painting two frames down, her beauty and elegance rendered immortal in a frozen frame. She barely changed at all in the six or seven years between this painting’s creation and her death.

Finally, his turned his attention to his father. His father was a tall, handsome man; he did not resemble his son at all. Even in this portrait where none of the subjects bore even a hint of a smile, his sternness was palpable. Heinwald could imagine his disapproving look being directed towards his outfit. He did not know if his father would’ve disapproved of him wearing this style of clothing. He never seemed to care when his sister dressed him up when he was small, though whether it was a general apathy or it was because of Heinwald’s youth at the time or if it was genuine acceptance he had no way of knowing.

He wondered if his father would've disapproved of Curran. It was likely: Curran was far too willful for his father to control.

He continued past the painting and continued on towards the study.

The door had been deliberately propped ajar. He could tell because the study door was weighted slightly oddly, so it tended to swing slowly shut and come to a stop at a natural angle. But it was staying open at a slightly greater angle, which meant that Curran was in. He tried to walk more quietly as he approached the door.

Curran glanced up when he entered the room. Then he did a double-take. He quickly set his pen down on the table and said, “Well, hello, gorgeous. What’s the occasion?”

As Heinwald walked over to him, he could see his sharp blue eyes roving up and down his body shamelessly, starting on the ruffled bodice, sliding down the ribboned panel, lingering on the fluffy skirt, then sliding down to the fishnet stockings and finally the small heels. When he rounded the desk, Curran reached out for him greedily, welcoming him into his space with grasping hands, even as he was unable to tear his gaze away from his body.

Heinwald did not think himself as beautiful. But Curran thought he was.

He leaned down and kissed the scar on Curran’s brow. When he pulled away, Curran pushed his chair back from the desk, a clear invitation that Heinwald gladly took. He sat down on his lap facing him and propped his legs up on the chair on either side of him, holding onto his shoulders so he didn’t tumble backwards off his lap. As he slid his hands against the well-worn fabric of Curran’s shirt, enjoying the feeling of hard muscle underneath, Curran’s own arms settled around his waist, with his hands supporting his back. He drew Heinwald in for a sweet kiss, a gentle press of the lips. When he pulled away, his brows were furrowed. “Fuck. It’s not our anniversary or anything, is it?”

Heinwald laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. “You shouldn’t say anything incriminating like that, my love.”

“Oops. I meant, oh, what a lovely anniversary surprise, thank you so much, I totally did not forget.” Curran was grinning at him like a fool. “Seriously, though. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Are you referring to me? Or to the outfit?” Heinwald asked, raising a brow, shamelessly fishing for compliments.

Curran laughed. “Well, I don’t think the first question is going to be answered anytime soon. The latter, please, and thank you.”

“You did nothing. I wanted to go shopping.” Heinwald shrugged, drawing Curran’s eyes to the rounded shoulders.

“Oh?" He reached out, rubbing the ruffle of his sleeve between his fingers. "Seems unfair. You do all the hard work, and I get to keep the rewards.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Heinwald began, moving to slide off Curran’s lap. He was stopped by a bark of laughter and those hands tightening around his waist, trapping him in place. 

“Nuh-uh. You aren’t going anywhere,” he said, mock-threateningly. Heinwald laughed, tilting his head invitingly.

“Well? Feel free to investigate.”

The first place Curran’s hand went, with his approval, was directly under his skirt. Heinwald smiled as Curran felt him up, running his hand along the stockings, along the lace trim, and following the lines of the garter belt up to the panties. Curran let out a happy, appreciative noise, but what was more telling was the fact that Heinwald could feel his cock hardening in his pants. 

Right as Curran was teasing the waistband of his panties, he paused. “Wait, am I allowed to get come on this outfit?”

Heinwald rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. As if I would walk in here and attempt to seduce you without considering all the factors, including cleanup.”

Curran’s response to that was to hook a thumb into the garter belt on his right thigh, pull, and release, snapping it against Heinwald’s thigh and making him jump. “Hey. Cut the snark,” he growled.

“You can’t tell me what to do.” How could he already be feeling addled with such a simple act? Of course, he had been hoping for that exact usage of the garter belts when he ordered them. He thought that he would have to push Curran into using them as intended, as he could be a little shy about indulging his dominating side. But he was...pleased with this outcome. To say the least.

“Well, you were certainly singing a different tune a few nights ago.” As he spoke, his hand was continuing its expedition. Dipping below the waistband, squeezing a handful of his rear: nothing particularly rough by their standards. Heinwald was content to sit on Curran’s lap and let him feel him up. He instead amused himself by grinding his hips down, feeling the line of his still-trapped cock, and leaning forward to nip at his throat. Curran obligingly tilted his head, allowing Heinwald more room to bite and suck marks into his smooth skin that he would no doubt complain about tomorrow. Despite the increasing strain in Heinwald’s panties, he felt no sense of urgency.

Right when it was beginning to seem like this would be no more than a makeout-and-groping session, Curran made his next move. He hooked two fingers into the waistband of the panties and pulled them down, under the curve of his ass, tugging them a little further down until they were trapped around his thighs. One hand still supporting Heinwald's back, he removed the other from underneath his skirt and held it out. "Could you get the lube?"

“Already? That was fast,” Heinwald teased him. But he reached back and, without taking his eyes off of Curran’s face, opened up a drawer and reached around blindly until he found a familiar tin. Opening it up, he held it out so Curran could dip his fingers in and get them ready.

“What can I say? I’m impatient.” As if to punctuate his point, he pushed two fingers against Heinwald’s hole. Heinwald bit down hard on his bottom lip as Curran slowly pushed them in. “You’re still pretty loose from last night. That’s good.”

Heinwald had no reply except for a ragged gasp. Curran spread out his two fingers, watching with unabashed pleasure as his face contorted with every twist of his fingers. He knew just how to get Heinwald to react the way he wanted: if he crooked his fingers just so, and pressed them in…

“Ah!” That elicited a full-body shudder. Heinwald squeezed his eyes shut, rocking his hips back and forth on Curran’s fingers, sparks running up his spine at every press of his fingers against his prostate. As he did his best to ride the fingers inside of him, Curran added a third one and resumed his work of loosening him up for the main event, only slightly hindered by Heinwald’s squirming.

He fingered him for what felt like ages, teasing his prostate, coaxing his hole to relax. But right as Heinwald began to wonder if he was planning on making him come on his fingers alone, he pulled them out. He quirked a brow at him and teased, “Need a moment to compose yourself, baby?”

Even though his glasses were already fogging up from the heat of his red face, Heinwald still shot Curran his best attempt at a glare. “W-what I need,” he said, studiously ignoring Curran’s snigger at the involuntary hitch in his voice, “is for you to whip out your cock and let me ride it into oblivion.”

“Not mincing words anymore, huh?”

“Give it to me right now or I will  _ cry. _ ” That was the most effective threat Heinwald could think of at this moment.

Curran mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like  _ you will probably end up crying anyways, _ but he said it while unbuttoning his pants, so Heinwald graciously let it go in favor of appreciating the sight of his cock emerging from the slit in his pants. Reaching for the tin of oil he discarded onto the desk, he nearly dropped it in his haste to slick up his own hand. Wrapping his hand around Curran’s cock, he only gave it a few cursory strokes before letting it go. As he shifted around, repositioning himself so he was kneeling above Curran’s lap, Curran said, “Who’s the impatient one now, huh?”

Heinwald’s only reply was to pointedly lower himself slowly onto his cock. They both groaned simultaneously as the head pushed in and in, tortuously slow, until Heinwald was settled all the way down, sitting on Curran’s lap. He remained there, dizzy with the sensation of being filled with the warm cock inside of him.

Curran’s arms wrapped around his waist in a hug. He gave Heinwald a soft kiss on his cheek and whispered into his ear, “You look perfect, honey.” The sweetness of his actions were promptly undermined by him adding, “So perfect, that someone walking in on us would think that you were just innocently sitting on my lap, when underneath that pretty skirt of yours is my dick in your ass.”

He briefly hoped that Curran couldn’t see the way his own cock twitched at the idea under his skirt, but something must have shown on his face because he laughed. Instead of spanking him with the garter belts again, he instead reached up and tugged gently on the loop attached to the front of Heinwald’s necklace. “Kinky bitch,” he said fondly.

“You cannot say that you don’t like it,” Heinwald rebutted smoothly. Then he pushed himself up, pulling off of Curran’s cock until he could feel the head tugging at the rim of his hole, and sat back down as quickly as he could, cutting off whatever witty reply he had in store next. Then he did it again. And again

It always took him a few tries to reach a true rhythm, to find the perfect sweet spot between wanting to feel the full length of Curran’s cock dragging in and out of him and wanting to avoid the burn in his thigh as he lifted himself up in the air and dropped himself back down. But soon enough he was riding Curran in earnest. Head thrown back, panties digging into his thighs, the fluffy skirt echoing his movements, bracing himself on Curran’s shoulders and being braced with two broad hands on his hips, fucking himself on that wonderful cock as Curran simply held on for the ride and whispered naughty praise into his ear.

“You’re so cute, bouncing in my lap, with that little skirt of yours. This dress makes you look like a sweet cupcake, and I’ll be damned if I don’t want to eat you right up. I can’t wait to do another maid roleplay with you in this dress; I really want to see you bent over something, flashing me your panties and garters underneath that petticoat. It’s the perfect shape so I could walk over, pull down your panties, and start fucking you immediately without having to take off your or my clothes. You know how much I like having easy access to you.”

Heinwald just soaked in the praise.

One unfortunate flaw that he had was his hubris. Whenever he rode Curran--which was often; he enjoyed being on his lap--he was always filled with determination to ride him to completion from beginning to end. The unfortunate truth of the matter was that he simply did not have the strength or the stamina to achieve his goal. And soon he was flagging, pulling away less and less, taking more and more time with each motion, unintentionally teasing both of them with his rapidly slowing pace. And soon Curran growled impatiently, bucking up into Heinwald. “Come oooon. Put your back into it, honey.” 

“Haaah...I’m trying…” Heinwald panted.

His thighs were straining, and even with Curran’s increased participation, he couldn’t help but let out a small whimper each time as he dragged himself up off Curran’s cock and a sigh of relief as he dropped himself back down again. A sudden low growl of frustration sent a jolt into his cock. “This isn’t working. Get up.”

Heinwald blinked down at Curran, dazed. He obeyed the best he could, clumsily pulling off of Curran’s cock one last time. He followed the hands gently pushing him off of Curran’s lap and he was soon standing in front of him, knees weak and trembling from his exertion, mourning the emptiness inside of him, waiting for the next direction. It came swiftly in the form of Curran downright attacking him with his lips, pushing him over onto the desk. A hand came up to cushion his head from hitting the wood too hard. Heinwald reached around him again clinging to Curran’s shoulders. He insistently pulled him closer, moaning as Curran bit down on his lower lip, nearly forgetting about his empty hole and his hard cock as he tried to lick his way around Curran's warm mouth.

Eventually, Curran pulled away with a laugh. Heinwald pouted up at him, slightly cross-eyed and offended at his laughter. He was sure that he looked ridiculous, with his fogged-up glasses and his glazed eyes and the utter wreck that was his hair, but those were all Curran’s fault--

“I’m not laughing at you, honey,” Curran hastily assured him. “It’s--you’re so desperate it’s adorable. You won’t even let me get my dick in there again.”

He could have told Curran that he was, in fact, laughing at him with that reasoning, but he just scowled and spread his legs invitingly.  _ Get on with it, then. _

“You’re in no position to be such a bitch, baby,” Curran told him. Heinwald moaned as Curran slowly pushed inside him once more, where he belonged. He pulled back and asked, “Ready? You’re gonna get it rough, just the way you like it.”

Before he even finished his sentence, Heinwald was already nodding eagerly. And when Curran pulled out and drove his cock back inside, he threw his head back, seeing stars.

When Curran said he was going to get it rough, he was not kidding. The only thing preventing him from sliding off of the desk with the force of each thrust was the vice grip Curran had on his hip. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the tears that were pooling in his eyes to gather up and run down to his temples, and then opened them again, watching Curran's gritted teeth through fogged glasses as his lover did his level best to break the desktop or Heinwald's pelvis. The only thing he felt capable of doing or saying was begging for more.

“More! Harder…!”

"H-harder?" Curran growled incredulously. "So--damn--needy--"

He stopped, making Heinwald whine, but only to readjust his grip on his hips and raise them up off the desk a little bit further. He slammed in once more and Heinwald  _ screamed. _

“Please! Please, right there!"

It was a good thing Curran still had his shirt on. Even though Heinwald's grip was scrunching it up in the back, giving it near-permanent wrinkles, and they would surely have to iron it flat again tomorrow, it was at least protecting Curran's poor shoulders from the assault of Heinwald's sharp little nails and his lower back from the sharp heel of his shoes, which dug in as Heinwald writhed about in ecstasy. Despite the fact that neither of them so much as touched his cock throughout the whole endeavor, in this position the silk petticoat rubbed against it with every thrust of Curran's hips. The tease was better than any touch could be.

The fun had to come to an end eventually. And it ended with Heinwald, unable to deny himself the pleasure any longer, letting out a loud moan, his breath still hitching with every thrust. He came all over the inside of his pretty white petticoat, making a mess of the panties digging into his thighs and the loosened garters and even dripping onto the lace of the stockings.

Curran was not quite finished. As Heinwald shuddered under the sudden onset of oversensitivity, he managed to keep up the pace for a few more strokes before he too could not hold back. He muffled his groan by leaning down and biting down hard on Heinwald's shoulder, who reached up with a shaky hand to cup the back of his head, holding him close, sighing happily at the sensation of being filled up with his love's come.

They remained like that for a few more moments, wound up in each other. Then Curran released his vice grip on Heinwald and carefully pulled out. Heinwald dropped his head against the desk, trying to catch his breath, until he felt movement. He raised his head and saw that Curran had picked up the edge of his skirt and was shamelessly ogling the mess he made. Heinwald scowled and drew his knees together, closing his legs and making Curran pout. “Aw, come on.”

“You’ve already come in me. Aren’t you satisfied?”

Curran laughed so hard he had to sit back down on the chair. Heinwald smirked at him and slowly sat back up, more than enjoying the mild ache that rose its head with the motion. He could feel the ribbon that he had so carefully tied up earlier giving up its grip and sliding down his hair. He ran his hand through his hair, both to smooth down the wild mess it had become and to tug out the ribbon to drop on the desk.

Curran was no longer laughing. Instead, he was looking up at him, eyes filled with a gentle warmth.

Heinwald smiled at him. “I love you,” he said fondly, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Curran got back to his feet. Wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed his forehead. “I love you too, gorgeous.”

**Author's Note:**

> Random headcanon: Heinwald is mostly pescetarian because that eating a lot of meaty or fatty foods gives him a stomachache. He'll eat a steak for special occasions but on a day-to-day basis he'll usually choose the fish or vegetarian option.


End file.
